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Why I don't use an electronic Bible in church  

Recently, a student asked me if I use an electronic Bible in church.  I told him no.

Before I give you my reasons, let me first tell you that I love (even depend on) electronic Bibles and commentaries for sermon preparation, crafting devotionals and researching biblical issues.  The ability to click with a mouse, swipe with my tablet or peruse with my smartphone is a huge time saver.   But when I attend church or speak in church, I never use anything electronic.   Here’s why.

First, the Bible is not like any other book.  It is unique in every sense.  Actually, its full and proper name is the Holy Bible.  Neither my smartphone nor my tablet is holy.  Nor is your Kindle.  They enable us to text, email, Facebook or phone a friend.  That daily stuff is all well and good.  But it is definitely not holy.  The Bible is special, and the physical copy I bring helps me in a subtle way to remember that.

I am not suggesting that the leather, ink, and paper themselves are holy.  Nor am I saying your electronic device cannot contain holy content.  But because the overwhelming majority of our time spent with electronic devices is mundane, for me it detracts from the “set apart” nature of Holy Scripture.

Second, I use a paper Bible because I believe it’s important to underline and make notes as I listen.  Sure you can do this electronically.  But honestly, how likely is it those notes will be around a decade from now?  I have notes in my Bible made 20 years ago that still inform me today.

Third, I use a paper and ink Bible because a smartphone or tablet invite—even beg—distractions.  There’s the quiet buzz of a text or email alert…a Facebook message.  I’m not looking for more distractions in church. 

Finally, it’s my opinion that the use of an electronic gadget for a Bible in church is just one more evidence of our demand for comfort and convenience.  Turning pages is just "too hard." Besides—gotta keep one hand free for that coffee cup!

 
Pancake Magic  

When it comes to geography, Americans are notoriously ignorant—and curiously unbothered about it. Whether looking at a globe or a U.S. map, most folks just don't care.

Take my home state, Illinois.  For those who live in the city of Chicago or its suburbs, their knowledge of the state's western borders ends at the city of DeKalb, home of Northern Illinois University.  But about half of the state lies west of this point—the half where my wife grew up.  It's the half that rarely makes the news.

Yet I say you have not lived until you've been there and cruised around the tiny town called Kasbeer, shopped inside a converted grain elevator in Princeton, or gazed upon the antique gas station rusting away in Ohio (yup, that's an Illinois town).

This time of year in particular, my mind wanders out to Illinois' other half. For years, the Kasbeer Community Church hosted a men’s' pancake supper for fellow churches in neighboring farm communities.  They came from places like Wyanett, Bhuda, Bunker Hill, and Walnut.  Mustached faces, bib overalls and honest smiles—they were a manly mix.

In the kitchen, wielding the largest spatula I'd ever seen, was Calvin Philhower.  He made one size of pancake—huge (these were farmers, remember).  Calvin was the first to volunteer to round up the griddles and get them prepped.  All afternoon he hovered over them working a sort of pancake magic.

Though it took a full crew to pull off this supper, Calvin—my father in law--was the guy I watched.  I remember those good farm folks, remember that pancake supper.  But mostly, I remember Calvin, who succumbed to cancer a few years ago.

Scripture makes it pretty clear that heaven will offer a banquet, and because Calvin loved Jesus, he'll be there. But if that banquet somehow offers pancakes of any kind, I'll know exactly where to find Calvin: deep in the kitchen.  Look for the guy with the big smile--and an even bigger spatula.

 
To Shout No  

She alone witnessed the crime.  Peering across the room, her intelligent eyes tracked his silent motion toward the door, observing his catlike ease in slipping behind it.  Her acute sense of hearing registered his cruel deed.  When she could take it no more, she blurted out, “No, no, no!”  Over and over she screamed it.

That's when Lucy's mother walked over to the shouting 16 month-old, asking what it was that so upset her.  The pantry door—now open—revealed the crime and the criminal:  Lucy’s two year old brother Caleb had snitched a number of snacks, the sound of the crinkling cellophane betraying his otherwise secret endeavor.

There was absolutely no way Lucy was going to let her older brother get away with snarfing snacks she herself was denied.  Whether whistle blower Lucy's sin nature was developed enough to savor her tattletale victory, I cannot say.

But I do know this.  There is a time for Christ followers to blurt out a resounding no, as Lucy did.   Not for the shallow purpose of being a tattletale, but simply because a thing is wrong.  1:15

The Bible tells us greed is a sin.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us divorce is not His plan.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us homosexuality is perverse.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us worry is a sin.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us prayerlessness is a wasted life.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us that staring at immodestly dressed women—whether on line, on TV, or wherever—is sin.  We need to shout no!

In a culture dying to say yes to almost anything, Ephesians 5:5 reminds us “No immoral or impure person or covetous man, who is an idolater, has an inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God.”

It’s time we relearned how to shout no.

 
Gutters of Tears  

It’s amazing what you find in the paper.  Recently, I picked up a Wall Street Journal and read Barton Swain's review of Thomas Kidd's new biography, George Whitfield.

Born in 1714, Whitfield was just 21 years old when—as he put it— after enduring

many months' inexpressible trials by night and day… God was pleased at length to remove the heavy load and to enable me to lay hold on his dear Son by a living faith.

George Whitfield’s spiritual journey caused him to deeply ponder the subject of conversion itself.   This passion pushed him toward further study, ordination, and an itinerant preaching ministry.  He traveled 14 times to Scotland and came to America 7 times.   In a given week, he often preached more hours than he slept.

And the great English evangelist didn’t sugarcoat his Bible teaching.  “I will not be a velvet-mouthed preacher,” Whitfield once proclaimed.   He made good on that promise with statements like:

Before ye can speak peace to your hearts, ye must not only be sick of your original and actual sins; but ye must be sick of your righteousness, of all your duties and performances.... If ye never felt ye had no righteousness of your own, if ye never felt the deficiency of your own righteousness, ye can never come to Jesus Christ.

Whitfield once spoke to a mining town near Bristol.  By the time he was through, Whitfield recalled “white gutters made by their tears, which plentifully fell down their black cheeks.”

A gripping image, isn’t it?  “White gutters made by their tears…”

Have you come to that place where you are finally “sick of your righteousness, of all your duties and performances?”  If so, you are finally ready to receive the forgiveness Christ alone can offer.

Psalms 51:7 “Wash me and I will be whiter than snow.” Jesus is ready to make you clean. Why not let Him do what He does best—right now?

 

 

 
The Extra Mile  

Have you ever felt like you haven’t been properly rewarded for going the extra mile?
I’m guessing Robert Ford might have felt that way.
 
Captain Ford was piloting a Pan Am Boeing 317-B just two hours out of Auckland, New Zealand, when his radio officer relayed the news about the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  Opening top secret instructions, Captain Ford was told that his aircraft (essentially a flying boat able to carry 74 passengers) was a strategic military resource and must not get into enemy hands.  Toward that end, he was ordered to take “the long way home” to New York City—and fly under strict radio silence.
 
This odyssey of more than six weeks took the crew 31,500 miles from the Far East, to the Middle East, Africa, South Atlantic, Brazil, the Caribbean…and finally home to New York City.
 
They had no suitable navigation charts, no certainty of obtaining fuel, no assurance of spare parts and had to fly under a veil of total secrecy.
 
They endured sleepless nights, the banging of a damaged engine, long flights, gunfire from a German submarine, the danger of a mined harbor, and rifle fire over the Arabian Peninsula.  At one point, they were nearly blown out of the sky.
 
But upon arriving home and debriefing, the crew was given a mere two weeks off before being returned to regular flight duties.
 
When I read this account in Ed Dover’s remarkable book, The Long Way Home, part of me was a bit put off.  These guys were heroes, weren’t they?  And yet, that’s what the war effort called for—at a minimum—heroes.
 
The words of Jesus come to mind: “So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, “We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty” (Luke 17:7).
 
You and I are in a spiritual war, make no mistake.  Maybe going the extra mile doesn’t make us heroes after all but rather, “unworthy servants” who “have only done our duty.”

 
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Jon GaugerJon Gauger

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